for Adam

And I didn't see that now you were here on the page
writing poems too: poems silken with blue, fortified
with a metaphor passing through. But I knew this speaker
was you and knew there was so much about you that could reach
around the metaphor to a personal etymology, one that could brighten
and darken the poem without too many over-determined moves.
But if you, speaker, need figures—more than language— who bless
the poem's grief with vantage points or an altitude high
up, or bandages soaked in vinegar, sure, then let the speaker
invent a mirage, I understand that, too. It's tough these days when
anxiety speaks through the fission of thought; it's the piss-pot
of the mind. What anchors the fisted pronoun 'we' in your poem?
Something must. And another thing, upon second read,
only now do I see how the 'you' and 'I' of someone else's poem
landed in yours: on that particular cited greenery.
And these other pronouns know—ahead of time-
to check the soles of their shoes and how to manage
a homonym's feet; moreover, they told you, speaker,
how to open and shut the door without too much invention
or conviction, which in a poem is rare.